deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Crimson Boquet
I'm too poor for flowers
so I'll bleed roses from my arms
I could sit in this room for hours
and write about your grace and charm
But I only have moments
before your boquet bleeds me dry
Promise me you won't go to my funeral
I'd hate for them to see me cry
so I'll bleed roses from my arms
I could sit in this room for hours
and write about your grace and charm
But I only have moments
before your boquet bleeds me dry
Promise me you won't go to my funeral
I'd hate for them to see me cry
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